The Gorgon's Head
by DrkVrtx
Summary: He should not look upon his goddess this way, but Pit cannot help himself. And sometimes the need grows too strong, too wild. Then, the angel turns to a place of darkness to find his solace. But it tempts him, and Pit does not know if he can resist it much longer.
1. Chapter 1

The gentle slope of her hips, curving upwards to the slim tuck of her waist. A smoothly toned stomach, the generous swell of her chest, all shrouded in pure, chaste white; an ankle length garment of fairy light, silky material, running through one's fingers as easily as water, should one's touch be permitted, or perhaps subtly passed off as accidental. The dress splits at the hip, the left side, baring the creamy flesh of her upper thigh with the faint breath of wind. An innocent tease, drawing the eye, causing it to linger on long, supple legs before the dress falls back into place and the goddess turns her gaze upon him.

And Pit looks up, smiling with enduring grace as he walks at her side. Her longer stride gives him legitimate reason to hang back, just a little. An unblinking gaze is fixed on the luxurious train of hair that tumbles down from her head, verdant like the fields of summer. Her locks are richly thick and bounce lightly in time with her stride, stealing the angel's breath each time he takes it.

He is faithfully at her right hand when Palutena stands upon the grand steps of her temple to look out over the city. This day, this morn, with the sun's warmth sprinkled liberally upon them all, Pit aches. His smile as the goddess comments of the brilliance of the day ahead does not reach his eyes. He is standing so close to her, the air sweetened with her perfume, floral and feminine. Her voice is smooth, like honey, sweet to his ear. And then, in front of the entire city, she sets a hand atop his head and lightly runs her fingers through his hair.

Like a boy.

Palutena murmurs softly, only for his hearing, that she is so glad to have him beside her. Her captain. Her champion. Her angel. The war is over and they have won, and her hand slips from his hair to his shoulder, drawing him against her side.

Like a boy.

But he is not a boy anymore. Pit aches, with a man's passion and a man's need.

His cheeks are inflamed as the goddess makes him lean against her, like the child she sees him for. Praise be that his chiton fits long and loosely over his body. Palutena is warm and soft, and Pit is tall enough to just tilt his head in towards her chest. Not too much – the city is watching, and he is a man, not a boy. Not a child. But as they stand there together his eyes begin to wander, and surely it is by virtue of a miracle that his hands do not follow them.

Pit aches. He _throbs. _He shifts his legs minutely, to make himself less conspicuous. Teeth clench and his jaw locks tight. He turns his eyes to look out over the city, and tries to drag his thoughts with them. But today, on this bright morn, Pit just can't. They are chained fast to the goddess, who holds him close and tempts him unduly. And then a spike of raw heat shoots through to his core, flaying wide open his mind's eye, and what he sees serves to make Pit jerk upright, pulling away from Palutena. He manages to pass it off as something trivial, harmless, and makes his polite excuses before fleeing her presence.

Pit tries not to move too quickly, feeling the goddess' gaze on his back as he walks back towards the temple. Once he gets inside, where countless angels go to and fro their daily business, he struggles to keep his gait as natural as can be. It is difficult, when the sight that his mind's eye indulges in is so vivid, so much so that he can almost touch it, almost taste it.

His seeking mouth pressed against soft lips, tongue pushing forwards to breech them.

Dredged up from some dark, primitive corner of his soul, Pit watches himself succumb at last and, gripped in an impulsive, snarling, decidedly masculine impatience, pulls Skyworld's goddess to the ground, straddles her body – which has driven him to such madness, and then mounts her, right there on the steps in front of her holy sanctuary, with the eyes of a thousand denizens upon his rutting backside.

Pit almost staggers through the halls of Palutena's temple, driven on by the strength of the vision. Stiff weight lurches between his thighs, constrained painfully by tight undershorts. No matter how he tries, his will alone cannot placate it. Pit heads for the hot springs to cool off, an inexplicable notion, but the angel knows himself. Or so he thinks, for he shortly realises that his feet betray him.

They lead Pit to a destination that makes a hypocrite of him. He knows that he should not, must not go there, and yet he yearns powerfully for this place. It is the only way he can cause to fade the vision that almost cripples him, right there in the corridors of the temple. So (and not quite with reluctance but emerging enthusiasm) Pit lets his feet carry him forth, to the one place in Skyworld that he tries steadfastly to avoid.

The vaults, where the spoils of war reside.


	2. Chapter 2

The room stretches on before the angel, and with his continued stride grows darker. Soon all that accompanies him is the sound of his own footsteps, a steady rhythm that his heart betrays. It beats eagerly as he draws nearer, as Pit leaves behind the light and sanctity of the temple and steals unknown into the tainted depths of the vault. He seeks not the decorated, inanimate trophies that over time he and fellow angels have won in the name of their goddess. His eyes pass over them, solid gold and shimmering crystal a lure he can easily withstand. But there is one he cannot.

Pit aches painfully with need as he reaches the vault's darkest corner.

Twelve flames spring to life, golden, three-pronged candelabras standing tall at each corner of the marble pedestal. The warm orange light reveals a peculiar trophy, one which both brought about war and with its claiming put an end to it. Pit's stride slows to a stop, though his chest pounds and his curled hand grow slick.

More than an arm's length separates him from the pedestal as he stands in front of it, watching thin shadows flicker and sway across pallid grey skin. Small, beady eyes roll open, a dozen serpentine pairs that fasten themselves upon him. Forked tongues taste the air, taste his presence, taste his revulsion. And they taste Pit's desire, thick and heady, a dark taint that clings to him. The eyes of a woman peel open last of all, rimmed with a deep shade of kohl. She finds him, and her pale lips curve into a smile.

That smile weakens Pit at the knees. With his gaze fixed on her mouth, on her soft, full lips, the constrained weight between his thighs weeps with excitement. And the angel lurches forward, single-minded in intent as hurried fingers scrape underneath his flowing chiton. Raw, desperation pounds in his ears, throbs in his throat, burns at his core, and he sees but one use for those lips, for that pliant mouth which he has sought and sated himself with before. He is a man and a man takes what he wants.

But then the goddess speaks.

"Welcome back, Pit. We've missssed you."

Her words halt him. They ring in the darkness like a slap to the cheek. The angel curses himself. The goddess smiles.

"Where have you been, my darling?" she laments, the low, throaty utterance of her voice bringing his passion to boil. "I am left all alone with no comfort or companion."

"That is your punishment," Pit forces through clenched teeth.

"I yearn for you daily, little angel," the goddess whispers, lips carefully forming each word. And Pit watches them, entranced. "I think only of you."

He swallows hard, unfurling his hands. "I did not come here to listen to you talk, Medusa."

"No," she says, with a slant to her mouth. "I know what you came here for. I only wonder why you deny yourself, when I offer it freely. So come, my darling," she tells him, and the serpents that shade her brow slink away. "I hunger for the tasssste of you."

Leaden weight roots his feet to the ground and Pit merely stares at the goddess atop the pedestal. This is where he should turn away, where he should master himself and turn his mind from the sheer desire pulsing through him. It leaves his throat dry and tongue thick. It renders numb his powers of thought, silencing the voice that warns him to put an end to this. Because he _needs_ this. He'll go mad otherwise.

Pit drags his feet and moves to stand before Medusa's severed head. Scarlet seeps from the wound at her neck, staining the white marble that she sits upon. With a tight jaw and his eyes singularly focused on her mouth, Pit splits open his chiton and produces hard, hot flesh. The goddess licks her lips, humming softly. He pushes the loose, silken fabric behind his hips and with stiff hands reaches for her head. He tries to ignore the cold, serpentine touch gliding along his skin as he pulls her forward. They disgust him; _she_ digusts him, and yet here he stands once more, pushing his proud, throbbing cock towards her mouth.

Pit winds his fingers into Medusa's hair, thick and lifted all around her head by a delicate, eternal breath, and tugs insistently. "_Open_," he growls, impatient as her small, white pupils flick upwards to find his eyes and she does nothing but grin. Her gaze unnerves him, leaves Pit unsettled. He does not like the way the goddess looks at him, or the subtle way she smirks. He wishes she were cold and dead so he could use her for his pleasure and be done. But then, were that the case, he would not use her at all.

Pit pulls once more and hisses. This time, Medusa promptly obeys his command.


End file.
